


Dark Days Of London

by GalacticallyNonbinary



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Steampunk, Angst, F/M, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Sad, Sherlock AU, Steampunk, Steampunk AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-27
Updated: 2017-12-15
Packaged: 2018-10-11 12:02:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10464444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GalacticallyNonbinary/pseuds/GalacticallyNonbinary
Summary: Sherlock Holmes is dead. Supposedly. Yet he can still appear in public, as long as his face isn't visible. A masquerade ball is a perfect place for the 'dead' Sherlock Holmes. Especially since he knows John Watson will probably be there.Alternatively:Sherlock's in a dress.





	1. The City Streets

**Author's Note:**

> Sherlock is in a dress because it's steampunk and steampunk dresses are frickin rad.
> 
> And this is gonna get kinda sad.
> 
> Sorry

Sherlock frowned at the letter from his brother. It had been almost a year since he had faked his own death, and endured watching his own funeral. Sherlock had been hoping to get back to his normal life in a week or so, but his brother, a close friend of the queen's, had just informed him that he would need to be out on the battlefield for at least another ten months.

Below Sherlock's dirty glass window were the cobblestone streets, and he watched a young boy light the gas lamps. He thought of John Watson, less than a block away, and yet they hadn't spoken in so long. Sherlock buried his head in his hands and tried his best to remember John's voice. Everything about it, every word he'd ever spoken, Sherlock held tight to it all. 

"That's fantastic!"

"We solve crimes, I write about it and he forgets his pants."

"I always hear 'punch me in the face' when you're talking but it's usually subtext."

"I was a soldier. I killed people."

"I'm not stupid you know."

And then he remembered the handwritten note he'd left on the street where he knew John would see it, and he knew exactly when John would run to see his dead body. He had to lie there and listen to it all.

The pained scream as he dropped the letter and ran. 

Ran to Sherlock's side, saw the blood, knew he was dead. 

And then, days later. At a dark grave. Sherlock heard it from behind a tree.

"Don't. Be. Dead."

He needed to get his mind off of it. Another ten months, and then his miraculous reappearance. Sherlock decided to take a walk around the dark streets of London.

There's something freeing about being dead. Sherlock had never cared much about what people thought or said, but he had to keep up appearances for his cases. Now that 'Sherlock Holmes' didn't exist, he was free to dress however he wanted. Sherlock hadn't ever thought much about clothes, but now, fashion was keeping him from the brink of boredom. 

Sherlock stepped out of the dark house onto a somehow darker street. His boots clicked against the stones, and the skirt of his dark brown dress almost dragged along the ground. A large black hat concealed his face from view. 

This was the famous Sherlock Holmes, yet dozens of clueless Londoners passed him by without a second glance. One Londoner, however, took a second look as they passed each other on the path. 

This Londoner wore a light tan coat, contrasting with the dark city around him. His top hat was at an angle on his head, and his white gloves were marked with stains from quite a few adventures. As this Londoner walked down the street, he saw a tall figure in a dark dress, and something about the way this figure walked caught his eye. For just a moment, this Londoner looked back at this figure, and for just a moment they stood together again after over a year apart. The figure in the dress was looking above the crowd, and he was focused on the sky. He didn't notice this Londoner, yet our wonderful Londoner noticed him. 

For once, our Londoner observed,

And Sherlock did not. 

As may be apparent, our dear Londoner's name was John. John Hamish Watson. John shook his head and continued walking down the street. Everything he saw reminded him of Sherlock. Even a strange person walking a little too quickly through the crowd. At least the ball tonight would let him clear his head. Maybe even find someone. John would call for a horse and buggy soon, but for now he liked walking through the streets and noticing the people.

Meanwhile, Sherlock was still staring at stars when he stumbled into a few women shuffling through the street. They giggled and and apologized, and Sherlock observed. He noticed their impeccable dress, and their bubbling excitement. In fact, almost all of London seemed to be cheerier than normal now that he thought about it. 

Feigning excitement in his voice, he stopped another giddy lady in the street.

"Excuse me, but what event are all of these lovely ladies and fine-dressed gentlemen off to?"

Her blonde hair fell lightly over her face, and the curious sparkle in her eyes made Sherlock wished he had time to talk more. She was certainly interesting, though something about her seemed off. She smiled a warm smile back at him, yet her voice seemed strangely lacking in the emotion her face held.

"Why, there's a masquerade ball tonight. We expect all of London to appear."

"Oh of course! That's tonight isn't it? Thank you dear. If you'll excuse me I should run and get ready now shouldn't I?"

"Oh yes. Wouldn't want to be late!"

Sherlock nodded absently before turning down a side street to short cut to his home. While he wasn't much for dances, he knew John was. And a masquerade ball certainly was a good way of concealing identity.


	2. Dance?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow I'm not dead look at that

At his house, Sherlock put on a large ballroom dress, and an intricately designed jacket. And on top of his face, he placed a mask. His own invention, it was covered in gears and cogs that locked together and turned occasionally. Best of all, it concealed his identity perfectly.

Back on the street, he hopped into a carriage and rode to the ball.

John sat in a chair on the edge of the dance floor nursing a small glass of wine. No one at the ball sparked his interest like he'd hoped they would, and now he was stuck being bored. He noticed a door nearby swing open, and a tall man wearing a long dress stepped out. His face was covered with a unique mask.

John, an already confident man, had one two many drinks, and his inhibitions had run out of the window. He stood up in front of the man.

"Dance?" One word. A question. The man hesitated for a moment, then placed his hand in John's open palm.

And there it was. That voice. Sherlock knew that voice, and he knew the man he was dancing with. The thrill of it made his heart race, as did seeing John like this. A sharp, tan suit, tall top hat, and a delicate mask that covered his face above his mouth. His eyes shone from underneath the mask, and Sherlock found himself lost as he stared at them.

His skirt flowed to the tune of the music, and John and Sherlock made the perfect dancing pair. They danced the night away and didn't even notice. Sherlock dreaded the next day, but his worries were forgotten when he was held so close to John.

"I wonder what your face looks like under that mask." John's voice yanked him out of his mind. John wrapped Sherlock in his arms, stopping their dancing. "Take it off and let's see, shall we?" Sherlock almost did it. He almost had the courage to do it. But something caught his eye for a brief moment, and he made his mistake.

He looked up.

On the balcony above them was a man wearing a mask in the same style as John's. He stared down at Sherlock. Even though his expression was obscured by the mask, Sherlock knew who he was. And Sherlock, from years of experience, knew the disapproving face he was making.

He looked back at John one more time, cementing the image in his brain.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock said quickly, dropping John's hands and dashing out of the ballroom. John was left, in shock, in the middle of the dance floor.

The man on the balcony retreated, presumably to go talk to a certain brother about certain assignments and how certain people should be avoided.

John simply stood there.

Then, a woman was standing in front of him. She said one word. A question.

"Dance?"

Later that night, before he left London for ten months, Sherlock Holmes peered into the window of the ballroom. He saw a familiar blonde woman dancing with an even more familiar man. Something yanked on his heart. He ignored the tears that welled in his eyes.

Ten more months.


End file.
